


put a flower in your pocket

by mindelan



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pre-Relationship, arthur gets the love and happy ending he deserves!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindelan/pseuds/mindelan
Summary: When the dust settles, John and Abigail come back for Arthur.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston/Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	put a flower in your pocket

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the song by the same name, "put a flower in your pocket" by the arcs
> 
> this begins my deep diving in the rdr2 fandom lsfkhjglk

Except for the rising sun, everything is cold. Arthur can’t feel fingers or toes, a tingling sensation working up and down his limbs. There’s a weight on his chest, heavy and claustrophobic, and each stuttering, raspy breath he takes scrapes against the bottom of his lungs in white hot agony. 

_Shit._

He hurts so bad that he blacks out for a few seconds. He's never been this close to death before, not even when the O'Driscolls had managed to hold him hostage. No, this is it for him. It sure ain't the blaze of glory that every outlaw wants to go down in but it's his end nonetheless.

At least John got away; hopefully he’s been reunited with Abigail and Jack by now. He hadn’t seen the kid anywhere during his fight with Micah. And Dutch. . .no, he’s not gonna think about Dutch right now. He’s dying. Hell, he certainly doesn’t deserve it but he’ll give himself a little peace in his last moments. He may be a selfish bastard, but there's no point in wasting breaths thinking about what went wrong and when.

Another cough rips its way out his mouth, the force of it causing black spots to appear in his vision. Won’t be long now. Painfully, Arthur turns his head towards the sunrise, decides that the last thing he wants to see is a beautiful array of colors, red, orange, yellow. When his eyes flutter shut, it's imprinted on his retinas, flashing in his mind until it fades to nothing.

It goes dark. 

And then – 

_“Shit! Arthur, you better not be – !”_

Warm hands on his chest, on his neck. Fingers at his thready pulse. He’s so far gone he doesn’t know the voice, but his subconscious recognizes it as familiar, as someone he's heard before. Maybe it’s Micah coming back, hoping Arthur's not dead so he can finish him off himself. Maybe it’s Dutch – no, he knows it ain’t Dutch. The man he’d used to consider a father had changed beyond recognition in the past few months. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have left – come _on,_ you bastard, _come on!”_ Arthur doesn't like the pain and desperation in the man's voice. He just wants to die in peace, wants to die in silence with the sun on his face and a smile on his lips, but that doesn't seem like it's happening no more.

“You let me handle this, John Marston,” a softer, more feminine voice cuts in. When the rough touch leaves his body, he arches up unconsciously like a plant straining towards the light until he’s placated by another. “I need you to keep watch, make sure none of them Pinkertons are still out there.” 

“Abigail, ain’t no one out here but – ”

His hearing cuts out for a few seconds, his ears muffled as if underwater until he’s thrust back up to the surface to catch the end of a threat: “ – or else you’ll wish I left you back with the others!” 

Arthur doesn’t want this. He wants to die with the sun on his face, he wants to die redeemed, he wants to die giving his worthless life so others could live in his stead. He doesn’t want the agony the man’s touch brings, the fight his body puts up to keep him alive, the ringing in his ears and buzzing in his brain. 

In his hazy thoughts, the stag appears. That damn stag, lit up by the afternoon sun, head raising to look at him with piercing golden eyes. _Fight,_ it seems to say, the word managing to cut through the fog in his mind. _Your story isn’t over yet. Fight._

When the stag darts off in the forest, Arthur doesn’t follow it. It’s as if his feet are rooted into the ground – he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He watches it until he can’t see it anymore, watches it until he’s thrust back into his body by some invisible force and spluttering up for air like a drowned man. 

There’s a woman kneeling above him, dark hair falling out of her bun and hanging around her face like a halo. He thinks she’s an angel, holy with the way the sun illuminates the planes of her face over him. Is this. . .? Has he been judged redeemed enough for. . .?

Arthur feels a pang of disappointment when he realizes that he’s alive, but that’s brushed away when he sees the sheer look of relief on Abigail’s face. 

“You silly, silly man,” she manages, leaning down until her forehead touches his, her breath ghosting on his face like a kiss. Something wet drips down onto his cheek, slides down his chin. “You idiot – ” 

“Abi, is he – ?” 

Abigail sits up, moves to cradle Arthur’s head in her lap. John stands above them, utterly shell-shocked, mouth gaping like a fish before he practically dives to ground next to them, skidding on his knees until he’s close enough to touch.

John swears in relief, running a hand through his black hair and pushing it away from his face. His hands touch Arthur's cheeks, his neck, before sliding down his body to grip his hand like a lifeline, calloused fingers wrapped around his pulse. Thready as it is, his heart beats on.

“Christ, Arthur,” he mutters. “You didn’t have to go and _die_ on us like that.” 

Arthur coughs, turning his head away. It hurts, but not like it did before, especially not when Abigail combs her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, pushing it off his forehead and murmuring low, soothing noises. “Didn’t. . .die.” 

“Obviously not,” John says with a weak chuckle, shaking his head. “But you ain’t out of the woods yet, partner. Come on, help me out here. Getcha back to others.”

It’s the mention of the others that snaps him out of it, weakly pushing away the two of them. “Go. . .without me. . .” A wheeze of breath. “Get outta here. . .damn it.” 

“We ain’t going nowhere without you, Arthur Morgan,” Abigail retorts, her tone leaving no room for argument. For a split second, Arthur’s reminded of Miss Grimshaw and her stern yet motherly bedside matter. The familiarly makes him ease back into comfort, makes him feel safe. “Jack’s safe with Tilly and Sadie, so don’t you go worrying about them. But me and John couldn’t just leave you up here by yourself, even if you was. . .”

John manages to say the words that Abigail can’t, filling in the silence. “We was going t’bury you. Make it nice as we could ‘fore gettin’ back to the others.”

Arthur takes a moment, mulls this over. He hadn't thought much of what would happen to his body when he left it. It probably would have gotten eaten by wolves or something. And even though he doesn't deserve it, a grave would've been nice. A proper one, with a headstone and the like. The thought warms him considerably. If he does die on this mountain, he won't be alone. If he does die here, they'll take care of him.

“C’mon,” John says finally, clenching his jaw, lines tight around his eyes. He looks so tired, so much older than twenty-five. “Let’s get you up. We’re taking you home.”

“Well,” Abigail says lightly, shifting slightly so she can help. “We ain’t got a home yet but we reckon you can help us make one.”

(He wants nothing more.)

“Others safe?” Speaking scrapes his battered throat raw but he needs a reason to push forward, needs a reason to walk off this mountain on his own two feet because John and Abigail won’t be able to carry his weight, even between the two of them. 

“Yeah, buddy,” John goes oddly quiet, throat working before he shakes it off and begins to pull Arthur to his feet. It’s not until they’re both upright that he speaks again, “We’re all safe ‘cause of you.” 

Not everyone, he thinks grimly, but he’s in too much physical pain to think of the mental wounds and focuses just on putting one foot in front of the other, the weight and warmth of their arms around his shoulders wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

Abigail presses a kiss to his cheek and he’s selfish, keeping his mouth shut about the risk of her getting sick because he wants her to do it again. For either of them to do it.

He doesn’t question whether or not he deserves it, these small touches and comforts. For two people to care about him in the same way that he cares about them. He's too tired for that – and maybe it's a blessing in disguise. For now, he lets himself be loved in this foreign, odd way and keeps limping forward.

(When Arthur better, he takes the time to reflect on all that’s happened in the past couple years and comes to the realization that he’s loved them all along.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! feel free to find me on tumblr at [vanderlinde](https://vanderlinde.tumblr.com), my inbox is always open!
> 
> i'm thinking my next fic for this fandom would be an arthur/female oc longfic, but i'm not sure when that'll happen and/or if anyone will read it akldjglkfdh i do love my oc lilith to death however so perhaps it'll be very self indulgent

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [all I want for you, is to be satisfied](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519221) by [Splatx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx)




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